


Love the Sinner

by KissTheBoy7



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Brotherly Love, Dark Magic, Frozen AU, M/M, Magic Revealed, OC, Sibling Incest, Snow and Ice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 21:06:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissTheBoy7/pseuds/KissTheBoy7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arik Sergievsky, the younger of the royal twins, is born with a terrible curse promised to destroy the kingdom one day. He's locked away in his room, where he stays in fear of harming the only person that he loves in the world - his brother, Anatoly. On coronation day of their eighteenth year, he flees the kingdom in search of somewhere to die; Anatoly, oblivious and starry-eyed, goes after him. (Frozen AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hate the Sin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onelessvariation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onelessvariation/gifts).



> Sooo I wrote this for Elizabeth earlier today and I figured I might as well make it into a semi-coherent story. It's not going to be fantastic and most of you probably won't understand our OCs or like them, I don't really know, but this fandom has so little fanfiction I figure why not publish it and see how far I get.

Arik Sergievsky's childhood lasted exactly five years.

He can still remember the way his brother's eyes used to glitter at dawn when he crept into his bed - pounced, rather - and his excited heartbeat beneath his hand. Once upon a time he had measured his breaths so very carefully, concentrating on the rhythm so that they could be the same. Their hearts had been practically synchronized from birth, identical just like their faces.

He wonders if that was what had made him do it.

He had ice in his heart, ice in his veins, in his head, in his hands. Anatoly didn't. They were supposed to be the same, share  _everything._

He had only wanted to show him how. He had only wanted to see if he could do it, too, if he put his mind to it.

(Anatoly was the older twin, but Arik was much more mature, more reserved than his reckless brother.)

(He tries not to think about that now, with the impending coronation freezing his fingernails.)

Anatoly had wanted it too, so badly that he couldn't refuse him. And look what had happened. His brother didn't even remember him now - not the way he wants him to, and certainly not with any chance of recovering what they could have had together.

It's not right to think of his brother like this anyways - like he's an extension of himself. He's not. He's just - he's just Anatoly, and Anatoly is important. There didn't have to be a  _reason..._

He deserved every second of this torture.

Arik remembers his childhood in excruciating detail. He thinks that the synapses have been frozen in place since then; it would only make sense, considering all of the other horrible things this curse has done to him, to their entire family. For years Anatoly had been limited to their brother and the birds for company. Where Arik only had his room, Anatoly only had the castle - and not even all of it, not if he didn't want his father to get out the belt.

(Again.)

(Arik doesn't like to think about the belt, either.)

He remembers the way his brother laughed and smiled and flounced around their bedroom, the hallways, the dining hall, the courtyard. He can still watch him occasionally, when he chooses the one just outside of his brother's window. (Probably on purpose. Probably in some fruitless, eager effort to entice him - and Arik  _wants,_ and Anatoly can never have any idea that he does, or everything will be ruined and the ice beasts will ravage the castle until there's nothing left but winter and Arik, alone, as always.) 

He remembers their noses pressed together, cold and flushed.

He remembers Anatoly's hands clasped with his.

He remembers how he'd collapsed, crumpled to the ground like he was dead already, and the crack of the belt later that night after everything and with Anatoly asleep in bed, recovering.

Arik can't even lament his childhood. He'd been the one to end it.

In the shadows, a frost-furred tiger licks it's lips. He hopes, not for the first time, that this one will actually attack.


	2. I Never See You Anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not sorry. (we'll see how long that lasts, eh?)

Anatoly's hands trembled as he raised just one to the familiar door, closed as tightly as it had been throughout their childhood. Alexei glanced doubtfully at him from the end of the hall, shaking his head just slightly; he disappeared around the corner after a long moment.

There would be no convincing him. If Anatoly was stubborn on any day, then in grief he was a force to be reckoned with.

"Arik? Please, I know you're in there..." He swallowed, blinking the tears from his lashes. The door was cold and hard and silent, just like his brother. Arik could have died back there - he could have killed himself and no one would probably ever know. He took a deep breath. 

"P-people are asking where you've been..." His voice was beginning to fail him. He pressed a palm to the door and ached, imagining that he could feel his brother's heart thudding in time with his. Stuttering.

(He couldn't. He hadn't been able to feel Arik in years, since the door went up.)

"They say have courage - and - I'm  _trying_ to." He could imagine Arik's face right now, the way he would roll his eyes. The way that he would refuse to wipe the tears from his face, or acknowledge them at all, until Anatoly brought him a tissue. "I'm right out here for you," he continued desperately, knees quaking. Any moment one of the servants or the guards might come around the corner and pry him away, pathetic and hysterical. This is what Arik had reduced him to.

He should hate him. No - he shouldn't care about him at all. They were strangers, bound by blood.

Here he was, pleading with him. Giving him  _everything._

_Please, Arik..._ His voice cracked, tears dripping from his nose. Even the heavy cloak around his shoulders did nothing to keep out the chill of utter loneliness. Of rejection. "Just let me _in_."

Arik wasn't coming out. Anatoly doubted that he was even listening. His heart beat out a sluggish solo, mourning, grieving everything - not just their parents, but their entire life,  _his_ entire life wasted behind the gates, Arik's behind this damn door. He turned from it at last, unable to handle the sight any longer, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut as he leaned his back against it and slid slowly down to the floor.

No matter what he did, he'd never be able to banish the haunting memories of his brother's last smile.

"We only have each other. It's just - just you and me," he told him, told himself, with half of a self-deprecating laugh. He couldn't smile. He wondered if Arik could feel it, could feel him giving up. Shouldn't he be stopping him?

But Arik was no knight in shining armor. Arik was barely even his brother.

"What are we gonna do...?"

Silence. Cold against his back.

_You don't want me, do you._

No. He'd made it very clear. Anatoly was the one who kept coming back - he was the poor, senseless fool, only good for endless games of chess with himself and for keeping Alexei humble enough that he didn't try sneaking out to hand out those awful pamphlets he'd made.

Arik was never going to come out of his room again. Not if he could help it.

Anatoly sniffed, his vision blurring. Outside, the snow fell gently; it was bitterly cold, but somehow, here against the door it was worse.

"Do you wanna build a snowman?" he asked, nothing more than a hopeless, cracked whisper as he tipped his head back against the wood.

There was no reply, but he wasn't expecting one.

On the other side of the door, his brother shook silently, too cold, too afraid, to say a word. Ice climbed the walls around him, jagged spikes and swirling chips, terrifying creatures which stared at him hungrily in the darkness. He wouldn't open his eyes; he wouldn't, didn't want to see them.

Behind his lids he saw Anatoly, curled into himself inches away. Waiting for Arik who would never come.

He could never know. Not as long as the creatures stared, fangs of glittering ice bared in sadistic grins. Mirroring his position, Arik tucked his hands into his armpits and held his breath.

Perhaps if he held it long enough it would all go away.

_You don't want to build a snowman with me._


	3. Winter Wonder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay yeah this one got a little longer... I have no idea where it's going but I guess that's half the fun.

**CHAPTER 3: Winter Wonder**

Once upon a time, at approximately four in the morning, a young prince awoke to see the first of the winter snowflakes dance behind his windowpane.

Anatoly could never explain to himself, let alone anyone else, why he loved the winter. He hated cold, he hated wet, and he hated being sick, both of which were inevitable; the kingdom of Russia was known across the seas as a place of abominable winters and the surly, hardened peoples who endured them.

The prince, though, was lithe and fair and crowned with a glorious nest of dark curls the likes of which hadn’t been seen for several generations. The winters were harsh, but they were always kind to the likes of him.

(Had he thought a little harder, he might have been reminded of Arik, and been exceedingly perplexed as to why.)

In any case, the winter had come at last, and that meant only one thing to the prince Anatoly: their godmother, the queen, was leaving for the Southern Isles, and Arik was to be charged with the keeping of the castle until her return. _Arik_ was to be charged.

Arik would have to leave his room.

With an undignified gasp, Anatoly fell from bed in a mad dash for the window, clambering up to sit on the narrow sill and stare longingly out into the fresh blanket of the dawn. Everything was white, new, and more importantly, freezing. Arik would have to leave his room; he would have no choice, however, but to stay within the castle walls, where Anatoly could find him.

He wasn’t going to be ignored anymore. He _would_ have his brother back, even if it meant being as obnoxious as their ten year old brother.

(Alexei was probably beside himself already. The winter weather had never agreed with him.)

A year had passed since the tragic death of their dear parents, and Arik had been locked in his room since, or so it seemed. The king-to-be had not made an appearance at any of the designated ceremonies; he was to be crowned on the morn of their eighteenth birthday, hardly another year away, and yet no one could find him.

There was no question as to where he was, but rather, why he chose to stay there. Even with the gates firmly closed, (for no apparent reason, not that Anatoly minded; the castle was large and empty, and when Arik emerged, they would have it all to themselves) there was much to be done with all of the riches they’d inherited, the priceless books and paintings, the ancient, hand-carved chessboard that Anatoly had hoarded away in his room. Arik remained absent and unimpressed.

Arik was _always_ absent, even at mealtimes. Anatoly wondered vaguely how he managed to sneak his food, and chalked it up to the willingness of the servants to bend to his will.

His brother could be vicious with his words, sometimes. It was funny that he didn’t remember when that had started; sometimes, Anatoly doesn’t remember anything…

He could feel the grin growing on his face, ear to ear, as he donned the first tunic and pair of trousers in his drawers. “Oh, Arik,” he singsonged, mostly to himself; he was giddy, and felt that if he closed his eyes and thought hard enough, he might be able to project the thought and fling it all the way across the courtyard to where Arik’s window remained dark and tightly shut.

“Oh Arik, won’t you come and play with me?”

The door would not remain shut today.

*

The room is an icebox, but at least it’s home.

Arik hates everything about his living space, almost as much as he hates himself. The ice never leaves him; it lingers in his hands, the palms and the pads of his fingers, underneath his nails. Every day he does his best to control it, exercises excruciating caution – but at night, it leaks from his body like some shameful bedwetting child, uncontrollable, and coats the walls, the floor, the bed.

He lives in a castle of brick and ice.

His own personal kingdom…

He shudders. _I’m not fit to be the king of anything._

The coronation which had seemed eons away on the eve of his parents’ funeral is suddenly looming; one year more, one singular calendar year, and the whole kingdom will be prying the door from it’s hinges to get a good look at the monster he’s become.

Anatoly will hate him.

(It’s only right. They’re practically the same person –

No. No.

They can’t be.

Anatoly isn’t evil, not like he is.)

The sun on the ice crystals shouldn’t wake him, as it’s hardly an unfamiliar sight. His senses tingle, the snow-beasts clamoring for his attention – winter has come, their time to play. He cannot let them out, as much as they want it.

Winter is too comfortable. It’s warm to his skin, which means that the blood in his veins must run cold.

It is no surprise to Arik that he isn’t human. He hasn’t felt human in twelve years.

He can hear his brother already – it’s hardly dawn, but Anatoly is relentless. He’d never given up, in all the years since they’d been friends, always rapping at his door in the morning, always bringing him tea, or a book from the library to read from the floor just outside. Arik couldn’t respond – he could never force himself to, not even to tell him to leave. He only bit his tongue and leaned against the door and listened desperately to the way his brother’s voice cracked and deepened, as he grew up and Arik remained here, frozen.

Sometimes he talks to himself, sometimes to the hideous ice monsters and the silence. It is better than wasting words on people who are frightened of him.

Anatoly deserves every pathetic word in his head. Anatoly can never, ever have them.

Ever.

Not even today.

“Oh _Arik!”_ he sings smugly, and Arik can imagine him now, hands clasped before him, on his tiptoes as close as the door will allow him. Sometimes it is warm enough to touch, and other times, he has to make do with leaning against the wall beside. “You have to come out!”

He does have to come out. He has no choice today.

Clenching his jaw, the prince let out a frustrated breath, a puff of frost. The temperature drops instantly – he swears that the icicles hanging from the ceiling are growing before his very eyes, sinister and sharp.

(One day he hopes they will fall and impale him, straight through the heart, and bring an end to whatever curse he’d been born with.)

He clears his throat. Abruptly, it occurs to him that his brother has rarely heard his voice in years – he doesn’t know that he’s prepared to have a real conversation with him, or anything resembling one. “Brother,” he begins, slow and awkward. He keeps it low and he can hear Anatoly holding his breath, excitement warming the air in sluggish tendrils which crept beneath the door. “I am sleeping.”

“You’re in charge, you have to get up,” Anatoly nags, promptly rapping at the door. As though irritating him is going to convince him. (It might have, years ago.) (It might _now_ if he’s not careful.) “It’s getting light out!”

“The servants know their orders.” He swallows a healthy dose of fear as one of the creatures, what looked to be a feral wolf, snuffled it’s icy nose at the door with glittering, malicious eyes. _No – no, you can’t have him._

They dined on blood, his beasts, when they weren’t consuming his fear.

He wants to be sick already.

_Why couldn’t they have killed me?_

Their mother had been soft – she hadn’t been able to bear the thought of losing him, not with Alexei just a baby and Anatoly on death’s doorstep. Their mother loved them all. She had been nothing but utterly supportive, and it had been the death of her.

She hadn’t given the prophecy a second glance. She’d doomed the entire kingdom, out of love.

Arik promises himself that he will never love anyone, and then studiously ignores the hideous way he’s already broken it.

_Not allowed, not allowed, not allowed._

“Arik!” Anatoly is pleading, pleading with him in exactly the same tone he had used as a child. _I want to try!_ Arik shuddered at the memory, sinking into the furthest corner of the room. He clicked his tongue, crooking a shaky finger; the beasts came to him, sometimes, but not today. Today they could smell his brother, alive and human like Arik never was. They want him.

“Arik, come out!”

“I am not coming out!” He snaps, and feels the bitter snow shower from the ceiling, dusting his dark hair prematurely white. “Leave me alone!”

“But Arik –”

He hates himself. He hates everything. Everyone.

He can never hate his brother, his mirror image; it drives him mad.

Anatoly is just as desperate for the sensation of touch, of intimacy, as he is. Their hearts had beat as one then – he finds himself wondering if they had stayed that way, after all this time. It couldn’t be possible. It just…

He hopes that it’s true.

(He’s sick. Deranged.)

“You are a nuisance,” he tells him, and while the rest of him trembles his voice does not. Anatoly stands behind the door, face falling, breath escaping him in a monumentally disappointed rush. The intensity of the mental image is so startling that Arik sucks in a breath, and is rewarded with a pair of glowing blue eyes turning to look at him.

 _‘No,’_ he mouths at it in some attempt to be stern. The wolf simply bares it’s icy fangs and lies down, turning it’s attention back to the door.

He can’t open it, even if he wants to.

_Oh, God, I want to._

_No. No._

He won’t be selfish. He won’t risk it.

“I – please?” Anatoly whispers. He freezes, staring so hard that his eyes water.

It’s on the tip of his tongue. He could acquiesce.

“… I will come out for dinner.” It leaves him in a frostbitten rush, defeated and frightened and it is only worth the paralyzing fear because of the excited inhalation of his brother, whose forehead thunks against the door gratefully.

“I’ll tell them to set your place!”

He has twelve hours to disappear.


End file.
